


Come Away With Me

by brinnanza



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s04e20 Qpid, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: “You know, that’s what I like about you, Jean-Luc. You’re never afraid to apply a little leverage when you’ve got it.” Q huffs out a breath. “Fine, I promised to keep her safe, and so I shall. That needn’t stop you from joining us once in awhile, you know.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Behold, my post-Qpid slowburn-ish OT3 epic because apparently if you want something done, you have to do it yourself. Thanks to Jazzy for the beta read; it was most helpful.

There’s a too-familiar pop and a flash of light, and Picard doesn’t even have to look up from the engineering report he’s reading to know who has just invaded his ready room.

“Q,” he says flatly, putting down the padd and folding his arms on the desktop. He briefly considers calling for security -- for all the good it would do -- and then decides against it. The fastest way to dispense with Q is usually to ascertain what he’s after. “I thought you were showing Vash all the wonders of the universe.”

“Oh, I am,” Q says. He flops down onto the ready room couch, limbs sprawled everywhere. He’s wearing that unearned Starfleet uniform again, in command red as usual. (And what an appalling commentary on these interruptions that there is such a thing as “usual”.) “Right now she’s on.... Argaillum IV, was it? She’s having a grand old time exploring the pyramids. I mean they’re still being built when she is, but even so. Is it still archaeology if you travel through time?”

Intellectually, Picard knows that Vash is more than capable of defending herself if the need arises, but a surge of protective anger rises up in his chest regardless. “And you just left her there?” he demands, expression hardening into a glare.

“Oh, settle down, Jean-Luc,” Q says. He crosses his arms behind his head and arches his back before sinking back down onto the couch cushions. “Your concern is touching, but wholly unnecessary. I’ll be back before she even knows I’m gone.”

Q’s deliberately unconcerned posture is hardly reassuring. “If anything should happen to her--”

Q sits up suddenly, swinging his legs around so his feet thump solidly on the floor. “If you’re so worried I might not keep my promise, you’re welcome to come along and keep an eye on me.” He smirks, waggling his eyebrows, and Picard clamps down hard on the increasingly tattered remains of his patience. He has always considered himself a reasonably patient man, but it seems to evaporate when Q is near.

Over the many years of his career, Picard has been threatened by more intimidating men than Q, and while it was true that none of them could fling the entire ship across the galaxy in a fit of pique, he hadn’t yet made a habit of acquiescing to them. “You will do as you promised, regardless of my presence,” he says, using the tone he takes with willful ensigns who’ve yet to learn proper command deference.

Q just flaps a hand, dismissing his words like bothersome gnats. “Yes, yes,” he drawls. “But how will you _know_?”

There is a vague ache forming behind Picard’s eyes, a regular side effect of prolonged exposure to Q. “Because if you _don’t_ ,” he says, “then you will still be indebted to me, a situation you would no doubt find most distasteful.” _As would I_ , he adds silently. Q obviously doesn’t need a reason to keep showing up unannounced and uninvited, but anything to discourage these visits is surely a worthwhile use of time.

Q gets to his feet and crosses to Picard, leaning over to rest his elbows on the desktop and setting his chin in his hands. “You know, that’s what I like about you, Jean-Luc. You’re never afraid to apply a little leverage when you’ve got it.” He huffs out a breath. “Fine, I promised to keep her safe, and so I shall. That needn’t stop you from joining us once in awhile, you know.”

Picard leans back in his chair to put some distance between them. Q could simply disappear and reappear much closer, but the motion gives Picard some small measure of control, something lacking in most of his interactions with Q. “As I told you last time, I have no desire to go off… gallivanting about the universe with you. What is your actual purpose here?”

“I _told_ you,” Q says, standing up so he can slap a hand over where his heart would be were he actually human and feign a wounded expression. “Honestly, Picard, I have never seen someone so terrible at accepting a gift. Don’t you humans have a phrase about that -- something about looking horses in the mouth?”

“We have another, more relevant expression,” Picard says. “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. What is it you really want?”

Q leans forward again, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk. His eyes are wide and serious, and when he speaks, his voice is uncommonly soft. “Just your attention, Jean-Luc.”

There is a moment, perched on a tightrope between one breath and the next, where Q’s expression is so sincere that Picard almost believes him -- believes he actually means what he says for once and that all the tricks are just the Q version of adolescent pigtail pulling.

But then Q bats his eyelashes, crossing the line into caricature, and the moment is over.

Picard scowls and pushes up from the desk so he can cross to the other side of the room. Regardless of the intention, trouble follows Q as surely as the wake behind a ship, and Picard wants no part of it. “I am not interested in playing the fool for more of your childish games,” he snaps, giving his uniform jacket a sharp tug to settle it.

There is a determined glint in Q’s eye that Picard does not like the look of. “You say that now,” Q says, “but I think you’ll find your recalcitrance a poor match for mine.” He flashes Picard a grin with too many teeth. “After all, I’ve had much more time to practice.”

He’s gone before Picard can think of a suitably scathing rebuttal.

 

After several days of waiting warily for the other shoe to drop, Picard starts considering the possibility of letting his guard down. There is, mercifully, no harm done this time, no lives hanging in the balance, and (though it is certainly a lesser concern), no ridiculous _costumes_. Dire advisory aside, perhaps the singular interruption is all there is to it, and Vash’s attention has provided sufficient entertainment for the time being. Security has been on edge for days; perhaps they can all finally release the ship-wide anticipatory held breath.

So, of course, this is precisely when Q elects to make his reappearance.

“Mon capitaine!” Q greets jovially when Picard enters his quarters to find an additional occupant lounging in his chair. “Did you miss me?”

“No,” says Picard. He really ought to know better by now that Q’s appearances are never as simple as they first seem. He turns to leave the room -- if Q wants attention, maybe withholding it will put a stop to whatever this is -- but Q simply vanishes from the chair and reappears between Picard and the door.

Picard exhales sharply. “I am in _no mood_ , Q. Get off my ship.”

Q leans against the door frame, his arms crossed, and dips his chin so he can look up at Picard through his eyelashes. He pitches his voice low. “But don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”

“No, I do not,” Picard says, turning on his heel. In fact, all he wants is a few hours alone with a book, Milton maybe, and a cup of hot tea. What was supposed to have been a routine survey mission had ended up being anything but, and Picard is rapidly nearing his breaking point.

There’s another flash of light, and Q is in front of him again, his hands on Picard’s shoulders and an earnest expression on his face. “Picture this,” he says, and there’s that damned _sincerity_ in his tone again, like a Terran dog hoping for a treat. “You, me, Vash, and the ancient civilization of Drite’erys.”

“Counter proposal,” says Picard, meeting Q’s gaze stonily. “Me, alone in my quarters. You, somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Well you’re no fun at all,” Q pouts. He drops his hands from Picard’s shoulders so he can cross them moodily across his chest. “You know, eventually I will come up with a time and place that even you won’t be able to resist.”

On better days, days that haven’t resulted in the death of one crewmember and injuries very nearly outside of Dr. Crusher’s expertise to two more, Picard might be willing to go a few verbal rounds with Q. He might even enjoy it -- there is something to be said for the occasional bout of strenuous mental exercise, and Q certainly qualifies.

_Today_ , though, the hours are long and getting longer, and Q has a habit of stretching moments into infinities. “I don’t know what kind of perverse pleasure you get out of ruffling my feathers,” Picard says, “but I have really had enough of it.”

Q clicks his tongue. “Nonsense,” he says. “You like having your feathers ruffled. You’re so _straight-laced_ , Jean-Luc; you need a good ruffling from time to time.”

Even if that were true, which it most assuredly is not, now is very much not the time. “I can assure you, I do not.”

Q rolls his eyes, his whole body committed to the singular task of expressing his skepticism for such a notion. “Fine,” he says. “If you tell me to go -- and mean it! -- then I’ll go.” There’s a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, as if the very idea that Picard might do such a thing is the funniest joke he’s even heard.

If it seems too good to be true, Picard thinks, then it probably is, but good fortune does occasionally hide in plain sight. “Very well,” he says. “Leave.”

Q purses his lips sourly. “Ah, but you don’t really mean it.”

Picard has rarely meant anything more. It is late and he’s tired and one or two moments of sincerity can hardly make up for all the trouble Q has caused. If the universe is Q’s sandbox, Picard is tired of having his sandcastles stepped on.

“I think I’ll be the authority on whether I mean what I say, thank you,” Picard says, the familiar scowl crawling into his voice. At least some things are predictable.

Q gives him a dubious look. “As it happens,” he says, “I do actually have to go.” He raises a finger to forestall any displays of triumph. “ _Not_ because you told me to. We both know you’re more fond of me than you let on. I just have some planets to rearrange in another galaxy. I had a bet with another member of the Q and -- Well, anyway. I will be back, Jean-Luc; count on it.”

“Perish the thought,” Picard says dryly.

Q waves a hand and an Elizabethan collar ruffle appears around his neck. “Methinks thou doth protest too much.” He winks, and then he’s gone.

 

True to his word, Q comes back again. And again. And again. Like senior staff meetings and holodeck malfunctions, it seems Q’s recurring appeals are just another thing Picard must work into his schedule, and they become routine in very short order:

He’s writing up a report for the subspace anomaly the ship had been tasked to investigate when Q appears next to his desk and says, “How about Iconia? Mystery for the ages? You can’t pretend you’re not curious.”

“Go away, Q,” Picard says without looking up.

 

He’s brushing his teeth one night, and Q appears in his bathroom mirror. “The Beta Quadrant planet Richette? Never seen by human eyes -- until now.” He waggles his eyebrows hopefully.

“No,” says Picard around his toothbrush.

 

His holographic horse is galloping through the French countryside, wind whipping past his ears as the green hills roll by, when there are suddenly hands on his waist and a voice murmuring in his ear, “Surely even you couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see the Belchari ruins -- before they’re ruins, of course.”

“Q!” Picard shouts, yanking on the reins to stop the horse. He leaps to the ground. “Computer, end program!”

The French countryside ripples and then vanishes, along with the horse Q is still perched on. He topples to the ground, landing hard with a satisfying thud.

“How rude!” Q says, clambering to his feet. He gives Picard a wounded look, his bottom lip jutting out overdramatically like a wronged toddler.

Picard exhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose, calling on all the decades of his diplomatic experience. Rarely has he lost his patience in the middle of a difficult negotiation -- and he has no doubt that that is what this is -- and he’ll be damned if Q of all people is the one to make him lose it now. “What do I have to do,” he says, speaking with deliberate patience, “to put an end to this puerile behavior?”

Q tuts at him. “Oh, Picard, you’re smarter than that.” He snaps his fingers, and the French countryside reappears, Q mounted atop a magnificent black stallion at least a full hand taller than the one Picard had programmed. The horse’s coat gleams in the mid-afternoon sunlight, and Picard gets the distinct impression their surroundings are no longer holographic.

Q leans forward to pat the horse’s neck. “I don’t understand why you persist with this absurd claim that you dislike me.”

“I don’t like you,” Picard says automatically. He crosses his arms and glares up at Q, focusing on his irritation and not on how much he’d like to gallop past the lavender fields just visible over the next rise. “You treat sentient beings like they’re ants under your boot, you are dangerously cavalier with my life and the lives of my crew -- and you _keep wearing that uniform_!”

Q glances down at the Starfleet red on his chest and the four pips on his collar. He snaps his fingers and the uniform is replaced with 19th century riding gear, complete with leather breeches and a cropped coat. “Is this better?”

“A marked improvement,” Picard says wryly. “Would you please return me to my ship now?”

 

“Alright, Stonehenge.” 

Q is perched on the edge of Picard’s desk, his feet swinging off the side. He peers down at the padd Picard is trying to read and then shifts around until he traps the edge of it under his hip. “Terran history is so dreadfully _dull_ , Jean-Luc, but I’m willing to make the sacrifice for you.”

Picard yanks the padd back. If the corner of his mouth twitches up just a bit, well, Q is gone before he can notice.

 

“You wouldn’t _believe_ where I’ve just been.”

It’s Vash this time, pacing up and down Picard’s quarters and gesticulating enthusiastically. “Obviously the _ruins_ are incredible, but to actually _see_ the city of Sivalla at its height, bustling with people, all the frescoes intact -- and the _marketplace_!” She stops and turns to face him, attractively flushed with excitement, her eyes bright. “You have to see it for yourself.”

Picard heaves a heavy sigh and closes his book -- it seems Dickens will have to wait for another day. “Vash,” he says warmly, finding himself genuinely pleased to see her. She looks well, hale and hearty, and considering the company she’s been keeping, that’s no small feat. “How -- unexpected. I assume Q thought you’d have better luck?”

Vash waves a hand dismissively and sits down on the couch beside him, leaning in close so she can flutter her eyelashes. “I can hardly blame him for his fascination with you, can I?” Her voice is pitched low, with all the magnetic gravity of a black hole. 

She plucks the book out of his hands and sets it down behind her, then settles her hand on his chest, fingers resting just below the hollow of his throat. “You really much come with us next time,” she murmurs, so close now that he can feel the puff of her breath on his lips.

He catches her wrist in one hand and leans back to put some distance between them. “You know I can’t,” he says, trying and failing to keep the tinge of regret out of his voice.

She studies him for a moment, trying to determine whether further effort might yield success or if she should change tack. Fortunately for Picard’s self control, she settles on the latter. “Can’t or won’t?” she asks, raising one challenging eyebrow.

“Vash,” Picard warns. He releases her wrist and gets to his feet, tugging his clothing more firmly into place. Vash braces herself with one hand on the seat of the couch and tracks his movements with an interested gaze. Picard holds his hands together at the small of his back, reaching for professional distance from the temptingly personal woman in front of him.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your regard,” he begins, pacing. “You know that I do -- and that I reciprocate it -- but your life and mine are quite simply incompatible. It is of course wonderful to see you again, but if the only reason for your presence is to convince me to participate in some hare-brained venture with _Q_ of all people, then I’m afraid I must bid you goodnight.”

Vash just looks at him thoughtfully. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and it requires a firm mental hand to stop himself from going to her. Finally, she says, “You know, Q is right about you.”

“I find that _very_ hard to believe,” Picard says, making a face. He can only imagine what sort of petty gossip Vash and Q have probably engaged in. He likes to think Vash is the sort of woman to keep certain things to herself, but he can’t shake the image of the two of them tittering like school girls. “I’m almost afraid to ask what about.”

Vash sits up properly, tucking her feet underneath her, her gaze still focused on him like a phaser. “He said you don’t have a very accurate picture of yourself. Surprising for a man your age.” Her mouth quirks up into a smirk.

“As if he would know,” Picard scoffs. Despite being allegedly omniscient, Q is frequently misguided at best. Hadn’t this all started years ago because Q had so grievously misjudged all of humanity? How arrogant to think that after all this time, Q might have a more accurate picture of the individual human Jean-Luc Picard.

It has come at the cost of many years of self-discipline and a few too many near-death experiences, but Picard is _proud_ of the man he has become. He is not without fault, certainly -- what sentient being is? -- but on the whole, he is secure in both himself and the knowledge of what that self is. 

“He knows you better than you think,” Vash says. “And so do I.” Picard starts to protest this patently ridiculous notion, but she just continues, heedless. “We both know you welcome a little extra excitement in your life, Jean-Luc. Don’t try and tell me our little adventure together on Risa wasn’t the high point of your vacation -- if I had left you alone to read your book, you would have been bored to death in an hour.”

Q’s attention has only ever been an irritation at best, and he certainly hasn’t come to expect his regular incursions into linear time. Picard won’t deny that he had, somewhat reluctantly, enjoyed his time with Vash on Risa, but surely that was a result of her company. Perhaps a solid week of poolside lounging _would_ have been a bit much, but that’s perfectly reasonable -- all things in moderation, after all. And anyway, it wasn’t as if he’d had the chance to find out if the holiday he’d been forced into would have bored him -- he’d hardly gotten a moment’s peace the whole week.

Vash pushes up from the couch and stands in front of him, slipping her arms around his neck. “Jean-Luc,” she purrs, dipping her chin to look up at him with soft eyes. “Don’t you want to see Sivalla?” She lifts one finger to stroke playfully along the back of his neck. “Don’t you want to see _me_?”

The admission is pulled from him unwillingly. “Yes,” he says. He clears his throat and blinks, struggling to maintain some composure when what he’d really like to do is pull Vash close enough to erase any space between them and find out if her lips taste the same.

Practicality prevails, though not enough for him to step out of her embrace. “But this isn’t going to work,” he says. It comes out just a bit too strained to be convincing.

Vash’s gaze flicks down briefly, her mouth twitching. “Seems to me like it already has.”

It’s tempting. Vash is so lovely and the universe is so full of mysteries he’d love to see unraveled. To actually see Sivalla, to touch the great frescoes lost to the ravages of time…. But it’s impossible. There are rules for interacting with other cultures, rules Picard wholly believes in, and rules have a way of slipping out of the airlock when Q is around. Picard has obligations, to the Enterprise, to Starfleet. To himself.

A moment’s idle temptation is all he allows himself. “You’re not going to be able to change my mind,” he tells Vash, and he even thinks he means it.

Predictably, she is unconvinced. She squares her shoulders, a determined glint in her eye. “Are you sure?” she says. “I’m very persuasive.”

“Indeed you are,” Picard allows.

“And Sivalla is so beautiful.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.” He gives her a wry smile. “Tell me, how many ‘miraculously intact archaeological finds’ will private collectors be purchasing from you this time?”

“None!” Vash says. Her tone is affronted, but it’s an affectation. Picard gives her a look. “Okay, maybe just a couple. Do you know how much people will pay for genuine Sivallan artifacts?”

He steps backwards. He has his Federation morals, and she has her own motivations, as always. “Goodbye, Vash,” he says.

“You don’t know what you’re missing, Jean-Luc.”

He lets his gaze sweep over her. “I can assure you, I do.”

She’s gone between one blink and the next.

 

They leave him be for nearly a month this time. If Picard didn’t know better, he might think they were finally respecting his decision to remain aboard the Enterprise. He suspects it’s more likely due to sloppy temporal coordinates.

He’s enjoying a quiet dinner in his quarters, a brief respite between one harrowing mission and the next, when the soft sound of Mozart’s third violin concerto is abruptly eclipsed by an argument already-in-progress.

“I keep telling you, you’re going about it all wrong,” Vash is saying, her arms crossed sternly. “If you would just listen--”

“I seriously doubt _sex_ has given you any special insights,” Q drawls disdainfully. 

“That’s your problem; you can’t even _conceive_ of the fact that I might know more about him than you do.”

“My dear, I am _omnipotent_ \--”

Picard clears his throat, and they both swing in unison to face him. Q’s haughty expression doesn’t budge, but Vash has shifted into a smile to suit her audience. There is an odd settling sensation in Picard’s chest at the sight of them again. The other shoe, he assumes. He’s beginning to think nothing can surprise him anymore.

“You know,” he says mildly, setting down his fork and resting his elbows on the table. “I had rather hoped that the two of you traveling together might at last grant me some reprieve from these unscheduled visits.” 

“That almost sounds as if you’re not happy to see us,” Vash says, turning her smile up to dazzling.

“Spare us your tired denials, Picard,” Q cuts in before Picard can answer. “Have you decided to come with us yet or not?”

Picard has tried every version of “no” he can think of, and still the two of them persist. The regularity might be comforting if it weren’t so annoying -- but when he reaches for that old familiar irritation, he finds it strangely muted, as if looking from some distance.

Well that can’t be right. Q has been a thorn in his side for years, constantly tormenting lower life forms for fun. Except… When Picard looks back, all of Q’s little interruptions have been while Picard is alone. He hasn’t interfered in ship’s business or its operation, hasn’t even spoken to the crew as far as he can tell. He’d certainly never bothered asking for _permission_ before whisking Picard away on some unwanted adventure.

Perhaps he had indeed learned something from his brief turn as a human.

“What do you need me for?” Picard says. “I thought you were so well suited.”

“Well, you know Q,” says Vash, which is, to Picard’s immense chagrin, something of an understatement. “He’s arrogant, petty, cruel--”

“Hey!” Q butts in, frowning as if those aren’t completely accurate descriptors. 

“--Self-absorbed, vindictive,” Vash continues, ignoring him. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s shown me some pretty incredible things, but as traveling companions go, I’ve had better.”

“And _she_ ,” Q says, jabbing a finger toward Vash, “is overly concerned with such petty human concepts as _money_. All of time and space and she’s wondering how to make a profit off of it.”

It’s like being thrust into a nursery full of squabbling children, Picard thinks. He wonders if they’ll be swayed by a stern word and a time-out.

“The _point_ is,” says Vash, narrowing her eyes at Q before turning her gaze back to Picard, “it’s just not the same without you.”

If it’s a game, it’s a damn convincing one. Picard has never known either of them to ask for anything without a con in mind, but longing tugs at Picard’s stomach anyway, heedless and illogical. This way lies only madness and who knows what other catastrophic repercussions.

Anger bubbles up in Picard’s chest and oh yes, there is the irritation he’d been reaching for earlier. He had always thought himself a hard man to tempt, but somehow Q and Vash had both managed to get under his skin. 

He’s suddenly very tired, the weight of all of his years round his neck like a millstone. “I’m sure this is a very amusing game to the two of you,” he says, “but I rather think I’m finished playing. Excuse me.” He gets up from the table and heads for the door, wanting very much to be alone.

“This isn’t a game,” Jean-Luc,” says Q softly, just loud enough to carry. He could change positions with a snap of his fingers, force Picard to face him again, but he doesn’t move. “Not this time.”

It’s on the tip of Picard’s tongue to cry foul. _Everything_ is a game with Q, a great cosmic joke where lesser beings are the punchline, every time. Vash may not have super powers, but her feelings for him are only relevant if they happen to coincide with her own goals. They both play at sincerity, perhaps skimming close once in awhile but always stopping just short of truly genuine.

“Why should I believe you?” Picard demands, still facing the door. He’s not sure who the query is addressed to. He doesn’t expect an honest answer from either of them, but the justification will be telling enough.

Q says, “Perhaps you shouldn’t.” The words are delivered plainly, underdressed for Q’s usual elaborate show. Picard turns around, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Q shrugs. “I’ve certainly lied to you enough times. I will lie to you again. How could you possibly trust an inherently untrustworthy creature such as I?”

“I can’t,” Picard says. He glances between the pair of them. He has built a career -- a defining moral compass even -- on the benefit of the doubt, but there are limits to even his faith. 

“So don’t,” Vash says. She meets his surprised expression with raised eyebrows and a little laugh. “No one’s asking for your trust, Jean-Luc, just your company.”

The two hardly seem compatible, like a black slick of oil that won’t mix into water no matter how vigorously the bottle is shaken. “How can I--”

Q rolls his eyes. “Lord what fools these mortals be,” he says in a disgusted voice. “You’re not exactly validating my interest in you.” He stalks over to Picard, peering at him down his nose. “Maybe we’re just playing with you. Maybe you’ll get to see wonders beyond your stolid imagination. Either way -- wouldn’t you like to find out?”

Irritation as familiar to him as the bridge of his ship or the back of his hand prickles across Picard’s skin because, infuriatingly, he finds that he _does_. How dare Q be right about _this_ , of all things. It’s the grit of sand in an oyster, a nagging, itching reality that may yet turn into an pearl with enough time and patience. There is a reason he is here, out among the stars, and not planetside somewhere with his hands full of dirt and old things. The ancient past is a mystery Picard could gladly spend his life unraveling, and yet here he is, on the bridge of a starship, in constant pursuit of all that’s _new_.

Excuses pile up behind his teeth like broken shards of pottery, but when he goes to utter then, he finds them just as fragile.

“There would have to be ground rules,” Picard says, bracing himself for whatever show of triumph Q is sure to display.

“Details, details,” Q says. His tone is smug, but there is something bright in his eyes, in his whole being, that Picard hasn’t seen before. Vash clears her throat, crossing to join them and taking Picard’s arm, and Q wrinkles his nose at her. “I don’t concern myself with your so-called laws of physics; what makes you think I want to abide by your puritanical sense of ethics?”

“Because my participation is contingent on them,” Picard says, and Q’s shoulders slump.

“Fine, fine,” Q says. “Nothing we do will affect the timeline, no interfering in other cultures, you’ll look like a peer to any aliens we encounter, et cetera. Standard prime directive boilerplate nonsense. Happy?”

Warmth blooms in Picard’s chest like sunshine on the vines. It’s a nice change of pace, he decides, having some modicum of control over Q. He doesn’t expect Q -- or Vash for that matter -- to ever stop pushing back, but maybe that’s part of the appeal.

Maybe that _is_ the appeal.

“If I do agree to this,” Picard says, “I would need some guarantee of my safety. I won’t just abandon my crew or my responsibilities.” It is, of course, patently ridiculous that he’s considering it at all, but at least he hasn’t lost all sense.

“They won’t even know you’re gone,” says Vash.

“Leave a note if you must,” says Q, “but I can return you mere nanoseconds after you left, a galaxy’s worth of travels in the blink of an eye. He scoffs. “Like I have to worry about _time_.”

Even so. “If something should happen to me--” It’s hardly an unreasonable concern, despite the look that Q and Vash exchange.

Vash reaches up and traces the shell of his ear with her fingertip. “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

“If you like mortals, I suppose,” Q says. Vash rolls her eyes. “Alright, it’s an attractive form, despite being singular and unchangeable. Rather inconsequential to me, but a nice bonus for you, I suppose.” Vash swats at his arm.

Picard wonders briefly if what he’ll really be doing is mediating arguments across the galaxy.

“Regardless,” Q continues, rubbing at his arm overdramatically and throwing a glare at Vash, “he does rather misunderstand the whole ‘all-powerful being’ aspect of the Q, doesn’t he?”

“You’re hardly all-powerful,” Picard scoffs. It’s just as well, really -- Picard isn’t sure he wants to live in a universe with a truly all-powerful Q. “Or have you forgotten being ejected by the continuum?”

Q purses his lips distastefully at the reminder of that particular encounter. “Believe me, I’d like to. Anyway, close enough. _Death_ is hardly an obstacle.”

It’s as much of a guarantee as he’s likely to get.

Q and Vash watch him expectantly. It is unquestionably foolish and almost certainly a mistake. He had thought he’d long-since outgrown such recklessness -- it had nearly gotten him killed as a youth -- but what was life without a little recklessness?

Q makes a rolling motion with one hand. “So? Come on, we haven’t got all day. Things to do, ancient civilizations to see and so on.”

Picard snorts. “I thought you didn’t worry about time?”

“Believe me,” says Vash, “that has not improved his patience.”

Time may reveal this moment to top “picking bar fights with Nausicaans” on the list of mistakes Picard has made, but curiosity wins out, as it always does. “Alright,” he says. “One trip. On a trial basis.”

Vash beams at him and Q claps a hand on Picard’s shoulder. “You won’t regret this,” he says. To Vash, he says, “See, I told you I could convince him.”

“With my help,” Vash retorts. “I told you you’d need it.”

Q loops his arm around Picard’s. “I admit you may have… reduced the process somewhat.”

“Q!”

Picard thinks he‘s already starting to regret it.

They’re gone between one blink and the next.


End file.
